The Writer (8 page)

On this night, though, Adele was not focused on footwear. Instead, she was looking up at a boxed collection of a Parisian arts and fashion magazine that had discontinued for over twenty years. She had taken two years of French in high school, so was able to somewhat slowly and clumsily follow the text.

It wasn’t the words but rather the pictures within a feature on a then-emerging American author Adele was most interested in. The article had been written twenty-eight years earlier, almost two years after the publication of Decklan Stone’s,
Manitoba
.

The magazine’s feature on Decklan was accompanied by several large black and white photographs. Adele stared down at a young and vibrant Decklan dressed in cargo shorts and a light sweater smiling back at the camera with the idyllic, time-capsule quality of the Roche Harbor resort as a backdrop. The next photo had Decklan and Calista holding hands as they walked toward the Roche Harbor Hotel. And a third picture depicted the couple standing on the bow of the very same Chris Craft Adele had so recently seen on her trip to the writer’s private island in Deer Harbor. Decklan’s eyes appeared to be scanning the world laid out before him while Calista’s eyes were fixed on her husband.

They both look so impossibly beautiful and happy.

Even as Adele formed that thought, she was simultaneously reminded that Calista Stone would be dead within a year of when that photograph was taken.

She reached across her small desk and pulled an archived copy of the San Juan Islands Ledger that featured the story of Calista Stone’s tragic demise. Adele looked up as the florescent light that hung from the ceiling over her head buzzed, popped, and threatened to go out before resuming its faint-droning illumination.

Adele had read the very same article prior to her initial interview with Decklan Stone, but now, after having actually met the writer, she wished to revisit it:

Wife Of Renowned Author Feared Dead

Local authorities called off a twelve-hour search for twenty-seven-year-old Calista Stone, wife of best-selling author, Decklan Stone. Mr. and Mrs. Stone were returning from a day trip to Roche Harbor from their island retreat located a short distance away in Deer Harbor on Orcas Island. It is believed she fell from the boat and then drowned.

Stone, a New York native, had become a common sight among island locals after recently moving to the area with her famous novelist husband. She was noted for her interest in helping local charities and forging new friendships with many of the area business owners.

San Juan Island County Sheriff Martin Speaks issued an official update late yesterday indicating there was no evidence of foul play. The death had been ruled an accident, thus ending the investigation.

Mr. Stone’s publicist sent out the following statement to both local and national media regarding the incident:

Decklan Stone has requested privacy following his beloved Calista’s tragic passing this past week. Per his wife’s wishes, there will be no service
.

Adele looked at the bottom of the page and saw a photograph of a much younger looking Martin Speaks holding up a single shoe with the following caption below the picture:

Sheriff Speaks holding the only thing found following the search for Calista Stone, a shoe that Mr. Stone later identified as belonging to his wife.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed off the hard, linoleum floor of the hallway that led to the media archives room. Adele waited to see if anyone would appear. Soon, she heard the soft ding of the elevator located some twenty steps beyond the room’s entrance.

She then heard the sound of something scraping the sidewalk surface above her and looked up through the window to see a scuffed black boot putting out a cigarette. It was a familiar sight as the area was a common place for smokers. Adele realized how late it was as she noted the darkness outside. As so often happened in the archive room, she had lost herself in research, and in doing so, let the time get away from her.

It was well past the library’s normal operating hours. For Adele it was not an uncommon occurrence to have to make her way outside after both students and staff had already left the multi-storied facility for the night. She carefully placed the magazine and newspaper into her backpack and then stood up from the desk just as the light once again began to flicker on and off.

Adele would be the first to admit that, no matter how many times she was alone in the library, it was no less creepy. She looked up at the window; there were no longer any people passing by outside. The university was settling in for the night.

Another set of footsteps could be heard echoing against the walls in the hallway outside the archive room.

Someone is coming down the stairs.

Whoever it was they were moving slowly, as if uncertain where they were going. Without knowing why, Adele felt a tightening in her throat and a voice in her head cried out.

HIDE!

She moved as quietly as possible between the four-foot-wide space that separated the multiple rolling shelves and made her way toward the very back of the archives room. Then she crouched behind multiple stacks of
LIFE
magazine periodicals and waited.

Adele could hear the footsteps more clearly. Their pace remained slow and deliberate, and appeared to turn left down the hallway before abruptly moving back toward, and then finally into, the archive room. Whoever it was paused just underneath the doorway entrance.

They’re looking to see if anyone is in here. Maybe it’s just a janitor or security, or---

Her thought was abruptly cut off as the footsteps resumed. They were heavy enough that Adele felt certain it was a man, a man who was now inside the archive room no more than forty feet from where she hid.

I need to get a look at who it is.

Adele slowly rose from her crouch and attempted to move her head just enough to see down the rows of shelves.

The florescent light above the desk proceeded to snap and flutter, and then it abruptly went out with a final pop, making it impossible for Adele to see who might be walking toward her.

Shit!

The footsteps continued.

Adele once again crouched low and tried to be as still as possible. She felt her entire body trembling as she realized the man was no more than four rows away from her hiding spot. He was, in fact, close enough that she could smell him.

Cigarette smoke.

Adele proceeded to crawl on all fours to the end of the bookshelf and then curled into a ball against the corner of the shelf and wall, praying the darkness would keep her from being seen.

She looked up as the man’s approach suddenly halted. A form, partially hidden by shadow, stood at the end of the row and seemed to be staring directly at Adele. He wore a dark hoodie pulled over his head, making it impossible to see the face residing within.

Adele opened her mouth and prepared to scream as loud as she could.

The sound of the elevator opening in the hallway outside the room caused her to pause and the man to suddenly turn and make his way toward the exit.

“Excuse me, sir, the library is closed. You’re not supposed to—”

Just as Adele stood up she heard the sound of a body striking against something hard and an older male voice crying out at someone.

“Hey! Get your ass back here!”

Adele ran down the space between the shelves toward the archive room entrance and saw a man struggling to get back onto his feet. She leaned down to help him up, but when he looked up at her he batted away her hand.

“And what the hell are
you
doing down here? Up to no good, I’d guess?”

The man, who was in his late sixties, winced as he felt a stab of pain in his lower back when he stood up. Adele noted the tag clipped to the front pocket of his short-sleeved, olive-colored dress shirt indicated his name was Carl. He had been the primary night shift custodian at the university library for nearly twenty years, a time which was an education unto itself regarding the best and worst aspects of college student behavior. He ran an age-spotted hand across the thin strands of white hair that partially covered his forehead and then tucked a corner of his shirt back into the dark blue jeans he wore.

“Did you get a look at the man who ran by you?”

Carl glared at Adele, annoyed by the question.

“No, I didn’t, because I couldn’t see his damn face. He was wearing one of those sweatshirt hood things.”

The custodian glanced into the gloom that was the archive room’s interior and scowled.

“Why is it so dark in there?”

He then took a moment to look at Adele more carefully before shaking his head in a show of disgust.

“Never mind, I think I figured it out. You young folks these days suffer from too many hormones and not enough sense. Having a private moment in a public library, huh? Wouldn’t be the first time I’d interrupted something like that, and most likely won’t be the last. Now why don’t you get yourself on out of here, young lady? I’m sure your boyfriend is waiting for you outside.”

Adele’s eyes widened at the description.

“He was a young man? The guy you just saw run out of here, he was my age?”

Carl shook his head again.

“I told you, I don’t know! I just assumed after having seen you…he was strong though, I’ll give him that, pushed me into this wall here easy enough. Maybe if you had the light on in there I would have gotten a better look at him. Then again, I’m guessing that light was off for a reason.”

It was then the custodian, himself a father of two daughters and four granddaughters, realized how rattled Adele actually was. His annoyance instantly transformed into concern for the female college student.

“Hey, was that man bothering you? Do you want me to call campus security?”

Adele shook her head while she readjusted her backpack on her shoulders.

“No, I’m fine, thank you. Are you sure you didn’t see his face?”

This time Carl’s expression was one of regret instead of annoyance.

“I’m sorry, no. I just couldn’t see him and it all happened so fast.”

Adele flinched as the sound of her cell phone echoed against the concrete walls. It was her newspaper editor, T.J. Levine. T.J. worked as an investigative reporter in Seattle for nearly thirty years. After retiring from the newspaper business, he accepted a position at the university three years ago to supervise the college newspaper. As the faculty editor, he was tough but fair. His opinions were based on first-hand experience in the business, and that meant a great deal to Adele.

T.J. told Adele that Decklan Stone’s publicist had called an hour earlier to schedule a follow-up interview with the author next week. Adele, still shaken from the brief encounter with the stranger, failed to immediately respond.

“Ms. Plank, are you there? I figured you’d be a bit more excited about this. You got a call back from a guy whose last interview took place before you were even born!”

Adele cleared her throat as Carl continued to look at her like a concerned grandfather.

“Thanks for the good news, T.J. I have a favor to ask though.”

“Oh, what is it?” the editor said with cautious curiosity.

“I want to make a trip to the islands again before I meet with Mr. Stone. There are some parts of the story I want to look into.”

T.J. knew the sound of a reporter chasing a potential story well enough to realize he could do little to dissuade Adele from proceeding with her plan, regardless of what he said.

“What story is that?”

“Decklan Stone, his wife’s death, something happened in those islands, T.J., I can feel it. Something that was left unsaid, covered up, I’m not sure exactly. I just know it.”

T.J. tried to convey the seriousness of what Adele was investigating.

“Ms. Plank, Adele, you’re to be conducting an interview,
not an investigation
. There is a significant difference between those two things.”

“I’m going where the story is leading me, T.J.”

Adele was proving the newspaper editor right; she wasn’t going to be dissuaded.

“When are you leaving?”

Adele gave Carl a reassuring smile before she continued.

“First thing tomorrow, I’ll be going to Roche Harbor to speak with a woman there.”

“So what’s the favor?”

“I was hoping you could let my professors know that I’ll be away for a few more days on a newspaper assignment.”

T.J. already suspected that was only part of the favor Adele was requesting.

“Is that it?”

“And I’m going to need some money to cover expenses. The ferry ride, food, transportation, the basics.”

Adele could hear her editor shaking his head over the phone.

“You know we’re already running this paper on fumes, Adele, and now I’m supposed to explain to the department why I’m sending reporters on multiple paid trips to the San Juan Islands?”

“Yes.”

The editor was unable to avoid chuckling. Adele’s enthusiasm, her pursuit of that unknown truth that drove all good reporters, was a reminder of his own idealistic beginnings as a journalist.

“OK, Adele, I’ll have the funds ready for you to pick up in the office tomorrow morning, so long as you can do me favor as well.”

“Sure, T.J., what is it?”

The editor paused for a few seconds. Over the years, he had seen colleagues lose themselves to the pursuit of the unknown only to be devoured by the process, leaving little more than empty shells of their former selves.

“Be careful.”

The ferry ride back to the islands via the terminal in Anacortes was a leisurely journey that allowed Adele a second chance to more fully appreciate the stunning beauty of that part of the world. By the time the ferry navigated the access ramp in Friday Harbor, the small urban hub of the San Juan Islands, Adele was only mildly surprised to find herself enjoying a sense of having returned to a place she could easily call home, even though it was only her second time coming to the islands.